Time
by ShadowedRainbow
Summary: Again with the summary... I'm horrible with them. This story came to me while watching a video. If you want to know what the video is, pm me and I'll link you to it. This is definitely an AU; possible slash; possible ship... not sure since I just started it and have no idea where the muse is going to go with it.
1. Prologue

Time, it is said, heals all wounds. But what does Time, that ever flowing, uncaring creature, cold in its passing, know of the wounds of the soul? What does Time know of the pain of a broken heart? The anguish of lost love? Nothing. It knows neither the joy of being loved, nor the agony of love lost. It does not know nor does it care. It just is. Time; ever moving, ever passing and forever unchanged in its coldness.

Yet, despite the coldness of its passage, Time does indeed heal the wounds, numbs the psychic anguish until at last, when near the end of the voyage, Time has taken all the pain into itself. At that moment, Time becomes something more. The brittle, sharp edges of pain are ground down by Time's merciless march and transmuted into soft memory. The barbs that shred the soul become seeds that grow into dreams of what was. Pain made into more in Time's cold hands.

_Tick…tock._ He sat, head in his hands, back bowed with sorrow, waiting- while Time moved on.


	2. Time: Chapter One

The first transport arrived before dawn, disgorging its solemn passengers into the cold chill of early morning. The men ignored the wind that blew newly fallen snow around them; their attention fixed firmly on the small valley below. Falling into line, they made their way down the winding path to the valley floor. The snow was deep, the ground frozen solid with mid winter ice. Upon reaching the bottom, their leader silently chose a location at the base of a lone tree, and began clearing the snow. When he was satisfied, he gave a nod to another. The snick of shovels being snapped together echoed in the stillness. Soon, only the sounds of icy ground being chopped into submission could be heard. From overhead, the noise of another transport shattered the silence, sending birds winging from the scant trees. The first group was joined by a second and a third, and soon the work on the grave was completed. Their work done, all dismantled their shovels and tucked them back into their packs; all save one who walked to the head of the open grave and thrust his shovel deeply into the frozen earth. Together, the men slowly made their way to the top of the path and vanished into the awaiting transports.

In contrast to the silent men, a crowd of locals had begun to gather along the rim. They were dressed in heavy, brightly colored winter clothing and had an almost festive air about them. In boisterous expectation they waited, watching as the transports continued to arrive; disappointed as their doors stayed firmly closed. At 1400 exactly, dozens of doors slowly opened and scores of somber, regal looking soldiers stepped out.

"Marines," a voice murmured reverently. All around him, heads bobbed in agreement.

The honor guard was formed along the path to the open grave; now they waited, silent and still; over one hundred Marines in full dress, two solid lines of black against the white backdrop of snow. The leaden grey skies held the promise of more white that was enforced by the icy bite of a capricious wind that flirted dangerously with the waiting rank and file. It tugged at the caps firmly placed on heads and flapped the long overcoats sharply against braced legs. As if bored, the wind moved from the silent Marines to the not-so-silent curiosity seekers watching from a semi-respectful distance. It whirled and swirled around them, snatching their words as it could not snatch the caps, and brought them in snippets to the silent honor guard.

"Heard it from…"

"Aren't they grand?"

"I heard they aren't normal. "

The words seemed not to affect the waiting men, their eyes remained locked forward and their posture military perfection. They seemed also not to notice the wind's bite, another thing that set them apart from the ones on the rim. Finally their wait was over..

Overhead, out of the wind's reach, a flight of Interceptors escorted a smaller transport in formation. The transport dropped altitude and the Interceptors barrel-rolled away allowing the transport to land. As if signaled, the waiting Marines snapped to attention, the sharp sound capturing the attention of those gathered to watch this rare sight. With the transport's landing, the wind ceased as if cued that something serious was happening. The silence left in its wake was deafening; even the whispers subsided.

The whispers began again with the appearance of the unit flag, the dark blue star field and crossed swords hung proudly overhead. The wind also returned, snapping at the flag with a vengeance. The comrades of the fallen carried the ebony coffin toward the path with slow measured steps. Two men followed behind; uniforms crisply black against the white snow. The taller of the two, with dark hair, scowled fiercely at the sight of the spectators lining the rim. The shorter, stocky officer kept his eyes on the coffin, face set in grim, haunted lines. Softly, from a distance, the wind carried whispers to their ears.

"Dug it themselves…"

"They's strange; truth be told."

"That's the commander…"

"Awfully small if you ask me."

Those observing from above, watched in morbid fascination as the coffin reached the waiting lines of Marines. As the flag passed between the lines, each man removed his cap, dropped to one knee and bowed his head. Once the coffin had passed by, they stood and fell into formation. When the formation reached the gravesite, the two officers moved to the 'head' of the open grave. The six stood rigidly at attention as their comrades slowly filled the small valley. The only sound was that of the occasional whisper from the rim and the crisp snap of the flag as the wind toyed with it. Once the last man had taken his place, the coffin was slowly lowered into the waiting hole.

Only when it was safely entombed, did the commanding officer move. With his head held high, he ran his eyes over the assembly but didn't raise them to the spectators, ignoring their existence easily. He said nothing, no words were spoken; for in his heart, he knew none were needed. He slowly peeled off the gloves covering his hands, and pulled the shovel from the frozen earth; the men around him mirroring his movements, exposing their flesh to the elements for this final farewell. The sound of the first spadeful of earth striking the coffin, echoed dully through the silent valley. He handed the shovel to his companion, who repeated the gesture. Each of the Marines assembled placed their own offering of earth on the coffin, moving slowly, orderly until at last it was covered and mounded. The last man folded the shovel and laid it on the grave then took his place once more.

The commander lowered his head for a moment, his eyes on the dark soil. When he brought it back up, it was to gaze on the flag flying crisply overhead.

"MARINES!" he barked. "OORAH!" The echoes from the throats of the Marines rang sharply around the valley, startling the spectators. The sound reverberated for several minutes. Then as one the Marines saluted, spun sharply on their heels and filed in perfect step out of the valley. They looked neither left nor right, posture parade perfect. The commander and his companion stood at attention until the last marine had started up the path; then the commander took the standard from the flag bearer and thrust it sharply into the ground. The flag bearer saluted then followed his comrades.

"Jim," the soft southern drawl was a faint whisper. "It wasn't your fault."

The commander didn't move, just stared out over the grave at his feet, cold blue eyes fixed on something only he could see. His companion waited next to him falling once more into silence. Finally, Jim saluted the flag.

"Let's get the hell out of here, Bones." He muttered.


	3. Time: Chapter Two

"Captain, I don't need to tell you that things are going badly for the Federation," the lines of Pike's face betrayed the worry the Admiral kept from his voice. "You've read the same reports that I have." Pike glanced to the side of the viewer. "If we don't do something and do it quickly, we'll have Romulans and Klingons sitting on our doorstep."

"I am indeed aware of the situation, Admiral," Spock spoke carefully. "I have been reviewing all the pertinent reports."

"Reports be damned, Spock," Pike snarled running a hand through his hair. "Reports don't tell the half of it. We've lost more ground in the past three days, more troops, ships than the reports tell."

Spock raised a brow. "What is it you wish me to do, Admiral? The Enterprise is but one ship."

Pike waved his hand in silent apology. "I know Captain, I know. You've done wonders, given the fact that you're outgunned. I have a proposal though. And I'd like you to hear me out before you agree." Pike leaned forward, pinning Spock's gaze to his own. "_If_ and only _IF_ you agree, we may just get some of that ground back."

"I am listening, Admiral," Spock lowered his voice, his tension ratcheting up several notches.

Pike began slowly and clearly laying out his plan in concise detail. Spock couldn't fault his logic or his strategy. As he listened he ran the possible permutations of this strategy, comparing them to the losing patterns Starfleet kept using. As Pike finished, Spock felt something like excitement crawl up his spine. He could see no reason that this plan _wouldn't _succeed. _Insanity is performing the same actions but expecting a different outcome_ his mother's voice echoed in his mind. And that was what Starfleet had been doing; none of the tactics used to date had proven sound yet they continued to use them over and over.

"Spock, if you agree to this," Pike leaned forward, "it will mean that you and your ship will be considered MIA. I want you to consider the ramifications very carefully before you agree. Once you agree, there will be no going back."

Spock nodded, his mind already clicking through scenarios, aligning arguments and rebuttals. He _knew_ beyond a shadow of doubt that this was the best course of action for them all. "Understood, Admiral." Pike held his gaze for a few heartbeats longer.

"I'll expect your comm in 24 hours?"

"Aye, Admiral. Spock out." He terminated the conversation, steepling his hands in thought. His eyes lit on the small static holo of his mother and father on the corner of his desk. He reached for it, obsidian eyes scanning their faces, remembering with perfect clarity when it had been taken; just a few months before the attack on Vulcan, on the occasion of his advancement to Captain of the Enterpirse. He stiffened slightly, forcing his controls back into place. After several minutes of deep contemplation, he punched the comm.

"Uhura here," the soft voice of his comm officer answered promptly.

"Lt. have all senior officers report to the briefing room at 1200 hours."

"Aye, Captain."

Spock swiveled his chair and stood, straightening his tunic, heart pounding in repressed excitement. _Finally,_ he thought, _we can do something._


	4. Time: Chapter Three

Jim set his glass carefully on the table. He met the eyes of each man seated with him in the mess. All of them held his gaze, no hesitation; willing to follow wherever he led. It bothered him still, sometimes, this unswerving loyalty they gave. He nodded once, sharply.

"Then you all agree?" he asked keeping his voice low enough that his words carried no further than their table.

"Aye, Commander," Scotty said. "You know as well as we that these bastards have got to be stopped."

"You can count me in," Sulu agreed. "We aren't getting anywhere like this."

"Its stupid, crazy and we'll likely end up killed, but yeah, Jim, I might as well," Bones drank deeply of his glass. "Ain't like there's going to be a world to go home to at this rate."

"Ok," Jim sighed softly. "There's a definite chance that Bones is right and we'll all end up dead."

"Commander, we're headed that way anyways," Scotty said, his face grim. Then his eyes twinkled. "As long as we have thermite and sandwiches, I'll be happy."

"There will be plenty of that where we're going, Scotty," Jim chuckled. He lifted his glass, rolling the amber liquid around in it. "More than plenty, if The Old Man has his way."

"So, Jim, who exactly came up with this grand plan?" Bones asked.

"Some Admiral over at Starfleet."

Sulu groaned and ducked his head. "Perfect. Those guys couldn't find their asses with both hands, a flashlight and a star map with directions."

Jim scowled. "Hikaru, I want you to hand pick the pilots for this," he continued, ignoring the remark. Sulu nodded. "Scotty, same for you. We'll need the best you can find." He finished off his drink. "Once this thing starts, we'll need to move quickly."

"Yes, sir," they stood, tossing their drinks back, then grinning widely, sauntered out the door. Jim watched them go, eyes grave. Bones waited for a few minutes before speaking.

"Jim you know the odds of this succeeding are…"

"What else can we do, Bones?" he said. "If we don't change the rules, we're finished. You know it, I know it and Command knows it." He tossed back the brandy in his glass. The two shared several minutes of silence between them, the sounds of the mess hall filling their ears. He looked around the room. "Look at them Bones, green as grass. They have no clue."

"Jim, don't do this to yourself." Bones warned softly. "Just don't." He laid his hand on his friend's shoulder. "You can't change it, so don't even try."

"Maybe, maybe not. Maybe this is our chance." Jim said just as softly as he stood. "Night, Bones."

Leonard watched Jim wend his way through the tables, back arrow straight, shoulders tense. He sighed and shook his head. "Damn fool idea." He swirled the whiskey around for a second, then slammed it back. "Damn fool idea."


	5. Time: Chapter Four

Admiral Christopher Pike shuffled the stack of flimsies on the table in front of him. The sounds of his wife moving about the kitchen punctuated the soft music playing. It was almost time for dinner and their guest would be arriving soon. Settling back, he let his gaze drift to the scene outside the picture window. San Francisco was still a beautiful city, despite the chill grey weather. From his home, he had a view of the Bay and the ancient Golden GateBridge. Below the rise, lay the Academy grounds; now quiet and resting from the chaos of the day. He stared at the landscape, his inner eye focused instead on the plan.

It was a bold, stupid plan, he knew. One single ship and crew against the entirety of the Klingon-Romulan Empire? Insane. But the very insanity of it might just tip the scales in their favor. He set his coffee on the table, fingers brushing against the leather-bound book resting there. He let his touch linger on the worn leather, idly tracing the faded gold leaf. He knew its contents by heart he'd read it so many times. The translation had taken him a bit of time to get right, but he'd managed. The content had made his heart sink and chilled his blood; yet he could not stop reading it.

The chime of his door brought him out of his reverie and he moved to answer it. He moved to the side so his visitor could slide inside quickly. The cloaked figure was imposing in the light of the room. The heavy silk was beaded with moisture, remainder of the fog rolling in. Hands rose, pulling back the cowl, revealing the grey streaked hair and lean saturnine face, lined with years. Chris met the deep eyes calmly, repressing the shivers that wanted to run up his spine. He motioned for the man to sit; waiting until he'd done so, before retaking his own place by the fire. He silently poured the brandy into two glasses, handing one across the table.

"My thanks," the low gravelly voice was soft. "Have you heard?"

"Yes, Spock has agreed." Chris kept his voice low. "The Enterprise will be listed as MIA on her next mission."

"Very well, the facility on Deneva is prepared and ready for the necessary refit." The dark eyes fell to the book on the table. He reached out and turned it slightly. "You have contacted Gen. Nogura?"

"Yes," Chris said. "He's agreed to give us Kirk and his command."

"Good." Lean fingers lifted the book, hefting its weight before opening it. "It is most important that Kirk be on the Enterprise."

"I understand," Chris said. A sound from behind him made him turn. His wife stood there, uncertain. "Ah, dinner is ready. Carol made spaghetti."

An almost chuckle came from his guest. "That sounds very nice. I have not had that dish in many years."

"Well I hope you enjoy it, Sir," Carol said smiling. "It was my mother's recipe."

"Then I am certain I shall." He stood, draping the cloak over the chair. As he did so, the fire illuminated one pointed ear. "Come let us enjoy dinner, and then we shall talk of other things. This war has taken up too much of our time as it is." He moved to Carol's side and offered his arm. "Madam, if I may?'

Carol cast wide eyes at Chris as she placed her hand in the crook of his arm. "But I thought…?" she asked confused.

"Madam, at my age, one rarely gets the opportunity to escort a beautiful woman to dinner," he said.

Chris grinned at the confusion on his wife's face as he followed them into the dining room. "Be careful, Ambassador, I might think you were trying to steal her away," he warned teasingly.

"I think you hardly need fear that, Admiral," the Ambassador said, seating Carol. "After all, I am far too old for her to be interested."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, sir," Carol protested. "I happen to adore older men."

"Older men, yes," the Ambassador said taking his seat. "But older Vulcans? I do not think you would find me nearly as interesting as your current husband, madam."

"Please, call me Carol."

"Then by all means, you must call me," the Ambassador paused; catching Chris's eyes, "Selek."


	6. Time: Chapter Five

Deneva. Not the most friendly planet in Federation space, it hung like a cracked gem, dirtied and yellowed with time. On approach it looked like any other abandoned, failed colony, faint scars of the brief occupation still visible to ships passing by. Only the very desperate stopped at Deneva; and those left as soon as they possibly could.

The surface was just as bleak as the view from space. Stunted trees dotted barren plains, their twisted limbs devoid of foliage, rattling in the hot winds that came from all directions. The winds carried the ash fine particles of soil into every crack, crevice and pore; leaving a person feeling as if they were made of the stuff. It got into food containers, clothing, equipment no matter how tightly sealed or protected the systems were. It was this very dust that had rendered Deneva unfit for habitation.

A colony had tried to settle here; to mine and farm the planet. But the surveys had no way of showing the ecological downslide of a dying planet. Not with just a few short survey trips. The colony had failed; and failed spectacularly. Only the events of Tarsus IV had kept the Denevan failure from making Federation wide news. The colonists had packed only the essentials for the long trip back to Earth and left it behind them like a bad dream. But for this purpose; this dark desperate scheme; Deneva was paradise. Off the beaten path, avoided, the remains of the colony still in a semi-serviceable state; it would suit their needs well.

Spock stood on the newly deserted bridge of the Enterprise, gazing solemnly at the planet rotating slowly below. Most of the crew had already beamed down, only the necessary techs remaining to assist with the refit. Though he would never admit it, he liked the solitude of the empty ship. It suited his nature more now than it ever had in the past. Others might call his actions illogical, but he desired this time to bid farewell to the ship he'd come to command. At the end of the refit, the Enterprise would be a stranger to him and to everyone who had served on her. Gone would be the spacious landing bays and boxey shuttlecraft; the labs, once the Enterprise's pride and joy, would now be home to the mad scientists creating new and better bombs and weaponry. The new holographic entertainment would be reprogrammed for another, darker entertainment, training programs to make soldiers into better killers.

He turned on his heel sharply, spinning away from the viewscreen and striding to the turbolift. He paused for a moment, shoulders and back ramrod straight, the perfect Vulcan. The lift doors pinged slightly, holding open as he stood before them. His head canted to the side for a second, then in an uncharacteristic, completely human gesture, touched the wall.

"I'm sorry," he whispered to _his_ ship. Then he was through the doors, emotions carefully shoved back into their box, on his way to meet his new co-commander.

James T. Kirk, newly promoted to Colonel, straightened his uniform once more. He eyed the silver eagle on his collar with a slight hint of distaste. He much preferred his previous designation, but Nogura had arbitrarily decided that he needed the extra status the bird represented, for this assignment. Bones had snorted, blue eyes twinkling merrily upon seeing the birds; and he knew that at some point he'd be hearing bird jokes around the mess.

Finally satisfied by his appearance, he scooped up his cover and headed out. He was due to meet the General, Admiral Pike and Captain Sch'n Tgai Spock in twenty minutes. They had scheduled the meeting with an eye to the capricious weather here on Deneva; while it never rained, the winds could and would play havoc with everything while blowing. Currently things were calm, but that would change. He had his briefing packet tucked under his elbow as he snugged his cover, eyes squinting into the odd light of the Denevan sun.

He was rather curious about Admiral Pike; he'd only heard of the man through reputation. Captain Spock, he was reserving opinion on. The dossier on Spock had been full of praise for the Vulcan's actions and service records. But he knew that what made it into the records was often subjective. Jim didn't care if the Vulcan was a good Captain or not, or if he was brilliant. His concern was how the Vulcan would resolve his up-bringing with the new crew under their joint command. These men were not scientists thrust into a war, these men were trained warriors.

He was also concerned that the Vulcan was not a tactician; a possible failing in his eyes. This mission called for tactics, strategies that the Captain of the Enterprise might not know, and might object to. Essentially, the Enterprise and its new crew were going to be privateers; their targets, any and all Klingon and Romulan vessels; civilian or otherwise. It was Pike's and Nogura's hope that a single ship, slipped into Empire held territory, could wreak enough havoc, disrupt enough supply routes, and possibly foment rebellion among the newly captured planets; and create enough distractions to give the Federation a chance albeit a very slim chance to retake some ground.

The dry crunch of earth under his boots was almost a comforting sound to him as he made his way to the dilapidated building chosen as the HQ for the refit of the Enterprise. From across the small "town" he could hear voices easily. He recognized the brogue and hid his smile; Scotty was regaling on of the fleet boys with wild tales of some of their missions. He resisted the urge to join the group when laughter punctuated Scotty's narration. His days of relaxing and bullshitting were long past.

He nodded sharply to the two uniforms posted outside the door to HQ, removing his cover as he stepped inside. He paused allowing his eyes to adjust to the artificial light.

"Colonel Kirk," Nogura's cheery voice hailed him. He almost grinned; the General always seemed cheerful no matter what the circumstances.

"General Nogura, Sir," he saluted sharply. "Nice to see you again, Sir."

"I just wish the circumstances were better, Jim." Nogura said returning his salute.

"Indeed, General."

"Let me introduce you to your new best friend," Nogura gestured toward the seated duo. "Admiral Christopher Pike, Captain Sch'n T'gai Spock, Colonel James T. Kirk."


End file.
